


Breakfast of Champions

by merelypassingtime



Series: The Well of Lost Plots [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, frittata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merelypassingtime/pseuds/merelypassingtime
Summary: Sherlock tries to make breakfast. It does not go well.





	Breakfast of Champions

**Author's Note:**

> All the blessings ever to the incomparable no-reason-at-all for her invaluable beta reading services. :)

The bed was deliciously warm and cozy, and John fought waking for as long as he could. When the long, lean body wriggled its way free of his encircling arms he barely stirred. The shower running in the loo two feet from his head didn't even phase him. He dozed right through what otherwise would have been a worrying amount of clattering pans and clinking dishes coming from the kitchen. The thick cloud of grey smoke and the smell of burning were what finally ripped him none too gently from the arms of slumber.

Automatically he reached over the bed, groping to find and wake his bed mate, only to find the spot empty and cold. A suspicion began to grow in his mind, but he still got out of bed,  crouching slightly to avoid the worst of the smoke that was now billowing around the ceiling. Despite his efforts, he was coughing by the time he made it out to the kitchen, but the sight that greeted him made him choke for a wholly different reason.

Sherlock was standing in front of the wreckage of the oven door, his favorite blue dressing gown riddled with small burn holes. His face was black with soot, and his eyebrows were singed off. He was looking down with dismay at the smoldering contents of the cracked pan he was holding in two oven-mitted hands.

John burst into laughter mixed with hacking coughs as he breathed more of the smoke still pouring from the ruins of their oven. Sherlock looked up from the pan, and for a few seconds he gave John the same sad, bewildered puppy eyes he had been making at the charred remains. Then he seemed to remember himself and his face morphed into a mask of haughty indignation. Unfortunately, between the soot and the lack of eyebrows he just looked even more ridiculous. John laughed harder and kept laughing as he made his way across the sitting room to open the closer of the two large windows.

It took him several minutes of leaning out the window and breathing the cold morning air before the coughing stopped and the laughter tapered off into the occasional burst of giggles. By the time he was able to return to the kitchen the oven was no longer pouring out fresh torrents of smoke, and Sherlock's face had settled into a much more familiar look of annoyance.

“What is so funny, John?”

“I think the better question is: what is going on out here? Experiment?”

Suddenly shy, Sherlock answered, “Well, I have been informed that after an enjoyable night of coitus it is traditional for one person to make the other breakfast in bed. And it didn't look like you were going to be the one to carry out that responsibly this morning.”

“Oh, been talking to Molly about relationships again?” John asked, a bit charmed at the effort Sherlock seemed to be putting into making this work. “And what, she recommended that you make me a nice warm bowl of carbon?”

“No, it was a frittata,” was the sulky response.

John felt his heart melt a bit more, and he crossed over to where Sherlock was standing, looking mournfully at the pan which now sat in the sink, thoroughly soaked. He had also taken off the oven-mitts, and John regretted not getting a picture of him before he removed them.

John rocked up onto his toes, stretching to kiss one cheek. It was like kissing a charcoal briquette, and John was sure his lips were now black but he didn't care. He put one hand up to the cheek he had kissed, thumb rubbing at the cleaner spot his lips had left and gently tilted Sherlock's head up to meet his gaze. The expressive face still appeared sulky and annoyed, but the eyes were worried and vulnerable.

John thought about how infrequently the genius and great detective allowed himself to be human, and how there had been nobody in his life that he could make mistakes in front of without being torn down before now.

John smiled at him, trying to pour a lifetime's worth of love and acceptance into it. “Thanks for the thought, love.”

“The thought doesn't count for anything.” Sherlock said with a dramatic roll of his eyes, but he also relaxed.

“It does or we wouldn't try people for attempted murder.”

“Are you accusing me of attempted frittata?”

“Yes, and I am sure you would have gotten away with it too if it weren't for that meddling oven.”

This sailed right over Sherlock's head, as pop culture references tended to do, and he ignored it. He did look down at the oven, saying, “Mrs Hudson is going to kill us. Perhaps literately.”

“We'll just tell her it was all in the service of crown and country.”

“And it was clearly a defective oven or it would not have burned my frittata.”

“Of course, I am sure it would have been good.”

“'Good?' Phift. It would have been amazing. Your taste buds would have danced in pure rapture.”

“That is probably true, but it still never could be my favorite thing to have for breakfast.”

“Oh, John. I wasn't going to make you beans on toast. Just because you have horribly pedestrian tastes doesn't mean I have to indulge them.”

“I wasn't thinking about beans on toast, you prat. I was thinking that I would much rather take a bite out of the most delectable thing in this flat and possibly the whole of London.” To make his meaning clear, John slid his hand from Sherlock's cheek, down his back, to come to rest on his impossibly plump arse. He brought his other hand up to cup the other cheek, then gripped them both firmly and pulled Sherlock flush against him.

“Oh, OH!” Sherlock said, catching on. “Well, I think I can still arrange _that_ meal.”

“Great! Let's open the rest of the windows and get you cleaned up a bit, then I'll take you back to bed and devour you like the tasty morsel you are.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, pressing harder into John, unmistakably ready to be devoured.

“And don't worry, love,”John said with a mischievous grin. “I am sure your eyebrows will grow back in no time.”

_“What about my eyebrows?!”_


End file.
